


I'm Listening

by clockheartedcrocodile



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Intimacy, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Voice Kink, experimenting with light dom/sub, trying new things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13386885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockheartedcrocodile/pseuds/clockheartedcrocodile
Summary: “Is that what I look like?” Tomas says softly. He reaches out and brushes the pages with his fingertips. They’re delicate, as all Bible pages are. Too delicate for the rough lines of charcoal drawings.-In which Marcus indulges one of Tomas' private desires, and Tomas is undone by it.





	I'm Listening

**Author's Note:**

> I thought to myself, what better way to try to rid myself of my lack of confidence in my own erotica than by writing the filthy, self-indulgent Tomarcus one-shot of my dreams? So I’ve done it, and here it is. I hope all you people enjoy it.

Marcus and Tomas enjoy their first lazy Sunday evening in weeks by reading in companionable silence, Tomas sprawled on the bed and Marcus curled up in an armchair by the window. It’s already long after dark before Tomas glances up from his magazine to see that Marcus hasn’t actually been reading.

“Defacing, this time?” he asks in amusement. “Or only redacting?”

Marcus glances at him, then returns to his work. His Bible is spread open on his lap, and his pencil-scratching is so loud in the silence of the room that Tomas is surprised he hadn’t heard it sooner. “Defacing, I suppose,” says Marcus. “Though I wouldn’t call it that.”

There’s another easy, comfortable silence, broken only by the _skritch-skritch_ of Marcus’ pencil and the occasional turn of a page from Tomas.

Tomas eventually glances up again. “It’s me, isn’t it.”

“Yes, it is, go back to your bloody articles.”

Another silence. Shorter this time.

“I could’ve gotten dressed.”

“I’m actually rather fond of this look.”

This is the first Tomas has heard of this, and he sits up a little straighter on the bed. “You are?”

“Yes, I am. I thought you knew that.”

“What,” and here Tomas pauses, embarrassment starting to knot in his belly. “What exactly . . . about . . . this . . . look?”

Marcus’ pencil abruptly stills, and he looks up at Tomas, his brow furrowed. Tomas can almost hear him now, in the theatre of his mind.  _Fishing for compliments, are we?_

But the Marcus curled up in the chair by the window, the one who sits with one leg under him and the other slung over the arm of the chair, doesn’t say things like that. Not to Tomas. Instead he looks back down at his Bible, and begins to worry one of the corners of the cover with the pad of his thumb.

“I like that your hair’s still wet from the shower,” he says quietly, “and I like that you don’t bother getting dressed when we have quiet evenings like this.”

Tomas, who is still in his boxers and undershirt, lets out a warm huff of laughter. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, coming to peer over Marcus’ shoulder. He rests his hand on the back of Marcus’ neck, and Marcus stiffens at the touch.

“Is that what I look like?” Tomas says softly. He reaches out and brushes the pages with his fingertips. They’re delicate, as all Bible pages are. Too delicate for the rough lines of charcoal drawings.

Marcus doesn’t answer him. He stares down at the sketch under his hands, as though dissatisfied with what he sees.

“You draw me more beautiful than I am,” says Tomas, stroking the back of Marcus’ neck with his thumb.

He sits on the arm of Marcus’ chair, and Marcus snakes an arm around his waist without thinking about it. He leans his head against Tomas’ ribs. _“Nunca podría dibujarte tan hermoso como tú eres. ¿Qué estás haciendo con un viejo gato callejero como yo?"_

A shiver runs through Tomas at the words, and the voice that says them. He slips his hand down the back of Marcus’ shirt and begins to scratch him between his shoulder blades. _“No eres un gato callejero,”_ he says affectionately, _“y nunca volverás a serlo. Los gatos callejeros no tienen a nadie que los ame.”_

“Tomas . . .” Marcus sighs, and then both arms are around his waist and Tomas huffs in surprise when Marcus pulls him into his lap. He presses a scratchy kiss to Tomas’ collarbone, before putting his chin on his chest and looking straight up into his face. “Tomas, I want us to do something new today. Think you can indulge me?”

 _For you, I am made of indulgences,_ Tomas thinks, but he only nods, and adjusts himself a little in Marcus’ lap. He takes off his reading glasses and hangs them, almost playfully, from the front of Marcus’ shirt.

“Do you remember,” Marcus says cautiously, and Tomas is pleased to see a flush start to creep up his neck. “Do you remember telling me once that . . . that you couldn’t find . . . _release_ . . . without the sound of my voice?”

The words are hesitant and awkward, as they always are when Marcus tries to put words to the physical intimacy they share, but nonetheless they make desire start to itch under Tomas’ skin. His cock twitches, and he wonders if Marcus can feel it against his leg.

“Yes,” he says weakly. “Yes, I remember saying that.”

“I thought,” Marcus moves his hand up Tomas’ back, touches his neck briefly before cupping his cheek. “I thought you might like it if . . . if you went and took your pleasure on the bed, while I sit here, talking to you.”

Tomas’ heart skips a beat. The words are said, irretrievable, and before Marcus can take his hand away Tomas turns into his palm and nips a little kiss against the heel of Marcus’ thumb. “How long have you been thinking about this?” he asks, his voice a little unsteady. His heart is pounding behind his ribcage.

“Don’t ask me that,” says Marcus distantly, his gaze fixed on Tomas’ mouth. “Is that . . . would that be good for you . . ?”

“Marcus,” Tomas breathes, and that’s all that Marcus needs.

He smiles a little as some of the anxiety seems to flee him. “Okay,” he says, “Okay.” He seems relieved, and overwhelmed by the _newness_ of it all. Marcus squeezes the bridge of his nose for a moment before covering his mouth with his hand, looking around the room as though this is the first time he’s seen it. It looks like every other motel room in the midwest. Ugly wallpaper and a bed made for two.

“Please go shut the blinds,” he says finally, and Tomas is glad he did, because the thought of some stranger catching a glimpse of something meant for Marcus’ eyes alone makes him feel ill.

So Tomas gets off his lap, and shuts the blinds on both the windows. The light of the tacky _VACANCY_ sign outside is blocked out entirely, leaving them with the yellowish-orange glow of the bedside lamp. Everything else is shadows.

“I’m sorry if I’m not very good at this,” Marcus mumbles into his hand.

“There’s no such thing as good at this,” Tomas says, which successfully earns him a laugh. He can hardly remember an occasion when their lovemaking hadn’t been awkward and over-eager, as they stumbled through it like a pair of Catholic schoolboys discovering their bodies for the first time.

Tomas sits down at the foot of the bed and, after a moment’s hesitation, tugs off his undershirt.

“What would you like me to say?” Marcus asks him.

“Anything,” Tomas answers truthfully. “Anything.”

“Do you want me to tease you?”

“No,” Tomas says hastily, something almost like distress rising in him as he fumbles with his boxers. “No, don’t . . . don’t _tease_ me, please.”

“Alright, alright,” says Marcus gently. “Don’t worry, I won’t tease you. I promise I won’t.”

As if Tomas needed reassuring. As if Marcus had ever been anything but the most generous of lovers. But to hear him say it out loud is an unimaginable comfort.

Tomas kicks his boxers under the bed, and he closes his eyes before climbing onto the mattress on all fours. His skin prickles with the knowing sensation of being watched.

God, he’s fantasized about this.

He hears Marcus swallow audibly. “Go on,” he says, almost in awe, and Tomas begins to slowly grind his cock against the mattress.

The roughness of the cotton is immediately almost painful in its intensity, and Tomas has to fist his hands in the sheets. The full understanding of what he’s doing comes crashing in on him, and he has to grit his teeth together to keep from crying out. He hopes he doesn’t look at ridiculous as he feels.

He can’t see Marcus- he is sitting behind him, and at an angle- but he hears him let out a long, shuddering exhale, as if he’d been holding his breath. “Tomas,” he breathes, and _there_ it is, there’s that voice that’s rough and soft and gentle all at once. “I can see the muscles moving under your skin.”

Marcus’ voice in his ears, and the thought of being on display for him and him alone, make a shiver of pleasure run down Tomas’ spine. He’s bracing himself against the mattress with his hands, as he would if he were making love, but he’s not making love, is he, he’s _rutting,_ and it’s that realization that makes Tomas lie flat on the mattress, pressing the length of his body up against it. He grabs a pillow and wraps his arms around it, hiding his face in it as though it were Marcus’ chest, and all the while his thrusts against the bedsheets grow more aggressive and needy.

“Don’t stop talking,” he whines, his voice half muffled by the pillow. “Please . . . don’t . . .”

“Do you wish it was me right now, instead of a mattress?” Marcus asks him, his voice low and rough.

_“Ngh . . .”_

“Take your time. No one can see you but me." Tomas hears his chair creak as Marcus leans forward. _What must his eyes look like,_ Tomas thinks wildly. _God, I hope they're hungry._ “Take your pleasure. _Take it._ You have my blessing.”

Tomas whimpers helplessly, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. It’s good, it’s so good, but it’s not enough. Marcus’ voice finds its way into him, clutches at his heart and squeezes it where it’s most vulnerable. He can dimly hear Marcus murmuring something in Spanish to him, and that nearly undoes him right there.

 _Touch me,_ Tomas thinks desperately. _Touch me with your mouth, your breath, your voice. I want to know your voice as intimately as your hands know my body._

It’s then that Tomas hears the sharp, unmistakable rasp of a zipper being lowered.

The sound makes Tomas’ whole body tense in breathless anticipation, entirely involuntary, and the sheets beneath him feel suddenly damp. For one awful moment, he thinks he might’ve spent himself already, but looking down he sees only a thick drip of precum leaking from his cock.

“I wish I were a fucking poet,” Marcus whispers hoarsely. Tomas hears him spit, and then the unmistakable wet, rhythmic sounds of Marcus’ hand on his cock. “You look incredible like this, Father. The lamplight does wonderful things with the color of your skin.”

The word _Father_ makes Tomas break out into a cold sweat, and he thrusts against the mattress harder, harder, _harder._ “You’re going to drench the sheets,” Marcus purrs. “We’re going to have to _sleep_ in that.”

Tomas moans in frustration and shame, and Marcus quickly shushes him. “No no no, luv, it’s not bad,” he says gently. “It’s not wrong, and it’s not dirty. _Keep going.”_

But the friction isn’t enough, it just isn’t, and Tomas has to press his face into the pillow and bite down to keep from screaming. “Put the pillow between your legs, luv. Grind on that, and bite your knuckles if you need something in your mouth.”

 _“Marcus,”_ Tomas stammers, fumbling with the pillow as he forces it down under himself, between his legs. The difference is immediate; the pillowcase is far softer against his rubbed-raw cock, and there’s a give to it, something to thrust into.

“‘Atta boy,” says Marcus with a warm growl. “That’s my good boy. Doesn’t that feel better?”

Tomas manages to stammer out a weak _“Sí . . .”_

“I knew it would. If I had my way, darling, you wouldn’t be making love to a _fucking motel mattress.”_

There’s a sudden bitterness when Marcus says it, a little glimpse of that righteous anger that only comes out to play when the demons do. It’s gone almost as soon as it arrives, and Marcus groans, almost wistfully. “Oh Tomas, you should be sleeping on a bed of fucking silk. You should have a different change of clothes for every day of the week. You should be eating three meals a day, and going for runs whenever you want. I’m going to _do_ that for you, Tomas,” and there’s a sudden resolve, a sudden burning, passionate resolve in his voice that makes Tomas want to cry, “I’m going to _give_ that to you. You deserve so much that I haven't given you.”

Tomas lets out a needy whine which under any other circumstance would have Marcus at his side in a second, but now it only sounds plaintive and sad in the dead air of the motel room. Marcus’ voice is _inside_ him, praising him and pleasuring him in the most intimate way it can. He wants Marcus’ hands exploring him, and the thought of it makes goosebumps rise on his skin. Sweat is beginning to drip down his neck, and judging by the sharp intake of breath from the corner of the room, Marcus can see it.

“That’s it,” Marcus murmurs. “You’re doing so well, and you’re beautiful like this, Tomas. I promise you, you’re safe. They’re not going to get you here, they’re never going to fucking get you. You belong to God. You belong to _me.”_

The dark humor of it all is not lost on Tomas, and he would’ve laughed if he weren't so lost in his own pleasure. Him, writhing on a mattress, and Marcus, filling the room with his scent and his will and his voice, talking- just _talking-_ and in so doing bringing about that animal convulsion, that final, ecstatic release. _Exorcizamus te in nomine libidine._ Tomas can imagine how he must look, trembling and sweat-slick and mounting a cheap motel pillow like an animal, and suddenly the thought that Marcus is watching him becomes overwhelmingly shameful.

There’s a hunger in his voice when he says “Are you close, Tomas?” that makes Tomas’ face flush scarlet from embarrassment. He nods shakily, and then he hears the chair creak as Marcus stands up.

Tomas bites his tongue when Marcus’ shadow falls across him, and when there’s a moment of silence he tries to say _please_ but all that comes out is a weak _“Por faaah . . .”_ begun in earnest and trailing off into a low groan.

“I’m not going to stop,” Marcus says hoarsely, and then his hand is warm and heavy on the small of his back, and Tomas thinks he might faint. “That’s it, that’s it, good boy. Let go, it’s alright, it’s just me. It’s just me.”

Tomas’ thrusts against the pillow between his legs become more erratic and desperate, and he has to clutch at the backboard of the bed for something to ground him. Marcus shushes him softly, as though soothing a wild horse, and begins firmly running his hand up and down the curve of Tomas’ spine, stopping just at the cleft of his ass before going up to his shoulder blades and back down.

 _“I’ve got you,”_ he whispers feverishly, his voice a little unsteady. _“Make a mess for me, go on. Right there, on the bed. It’s alright. It’s alright. You’re with me and you’re so fucking loved.”_

“Marcus,” Tomas moans through gritted teeth, and at last, his orgasm takes him.

The assault of it is sudden and violent, almost too much for him, and he lets out a strangled wail before burying his face in the mattress. He’s dimly aware of Marcus breathlessly stammering _“That’s it, that’s it, I’m so fucking proud of you, let it all out,”_ as he comes audibly in three messy spurts, dampening the pillowcase under him. His strength leaves him and he collapses onto his belly, blissfully wrung-out and spent.

He hears Marcus inhale deeply, realizes that the whole room smells of sex. His seed is hot against his skin where he’s lying in it.

“God, Tomas,” Marcus says weakly, and Tomas, still limp from exhaustion, is pleased to hear that he sounds absolutely wrecked. “You have no idea what it’s like for me to see you like that.”

Tomas shifts his head a little on the mattress, so he can better see Marcus’ face. “Debauched . . ?” he says, in a very small voice.

Marcus shakes his head. _“Undone,”_ His hand stills on Tomas’ back, and after a moment’s hesitation, he gives him a little pat, as though rewarding him for a job well done. “I . . . I’m glad I can can give you that kind of pleasure. I’m glad I can satisfy you, in that way at least.”

Marcus gently grips Tomas’ shoulder and shifts him onto his side, exposing his belly to the air. The pillow is still damp with his seed, but most of it is still sticking to his skin. Tomas closes his eyes in mortification as a thick drip of it gathers in the v-line at his hips.

“I could _hear_ it when you came,” Marcus says weakly. “I’ve never been able to hear it before.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping with the weight displacement, and lets go of Tomas’ shoulder just long enough to take the pillow and work it out of its case. His discards the pillow on the floor and folds the case clumsily into quarters, before tugging Tomas a little closer by the hips. Tenderly, but thoroughly, he begins to wipe him clean.

Tomas exhales softly, his heart too full to speak. Instead he reaches out to rest his hand on Marcus’ thigh.

“This is sacred,” Marcus says quietly, his eyes downcast. “I’m tired of performing sacred acts in profane places.”

Tomas gives Marcus’ thigh a gentle squeeze, hoping he’ll understand what he means without words. He always does.

“I meant what I said,” Marcus continues. He sniffs wetly, and wipes it with the back of his hand. Tomas has the grace not to comment on it. “About the silk, and the food, and all that . . . I meant that.”

“God made us exorcists, Marcus,” Tomas says gently. “Not princes.”

Marcus nods wordlessly, and dips the pillowcase between Tomas’ legs to get the last of his seed. “Do you feel clean?” he asks, as he crumples up the pillowcase with one hand.

The look in Tomas’ eyes must be answer enough, because Marcus finally smiles, almost shyly, and tosses the crumpled pillowcase onto the other side of the bed. “Budge up,” he says, and Tomas scoots to the side, making room for Marcus to lie down next to him.

They exchange lazy kisses in the dark. After a while Tomas starts making his way down Marcus’ body, leaving open-mouthed kisses as he goes, and makes love to Marcus’ cock with his mouth until Marcus comes with a low, agonized groan.

The room is silent but for their ragged breathing. The blissful aftermath; the moment when tomorrow doesn’t matter, when the next twelve-hour drive is a world away.

Tomas crawls back up the mattress and curls up under Marcus' arm, his head on his chest. “Promise me,” he mumbles, as exhaustion weighs heavy on his eyes, “that we’ll do this again.”

He falls asleep before he hears Marcus’ answer.


End file.
